This story is very emotional and very triggering. Before you read this please know that it contains rape and abuse.It is extremely important though.When we can, we talk about what we've gone through, what we're going through. We try to be there and see those going through the same things, or those who have been through it.Because we know, from personal experience, that no one actually understands unless they've gone through that same hell.

“Make one more move, and I will kill you.” His voice wraps around Sarah like hot oil, burning and singeing her skin. His hands squeeze her neck, pushing her tendons into her muscle until she can feel nothing but numbness. Lost. Disappearing inside herself. Images blur, shifting from blue diamonds behind her eyes to red triangles. And bright stars--stars like she once saw in the beautiful night sky on the Syrian border. Stars that she lay under, planning her future, her bright career as she climbed the ranks. Stars that now dim and burrow into the background, hidden away in the depths of her mind.Her body jerks awake, attempting to protect her. Even now. So many years after that night was first burned into her dark skin.The trip to the hospital. The rape kit. The feeling of being violated all over again while someone probed and pushed and “sweetied” her to the point of tears. “I know, honey. It hurts. But we have to do it,” the nurse had said. Sarah could remember nothing more about her beyond the smell of lavender oil and latex. Her body curling into itself. Her mind blaming and shaming her for every movement.How could I let this happen to me? Why didn’t I fight harder? I am trained in combatives, and I still froze. Sarah had tried to tell herself the things she knew, or had heard in the classes she had been forced to attend. “Rape is about power, not sex.” “No means no.” “Rape is never the victim’s fault.” But that word had hung around Sarah’s neck like an albatross: victim. Victim felt dirty. Weak. And if she is honest, weak is how she feels. Day in and day out. As he moves every step with her, infiltrating her mind, and working so hard to maintain his control. He follows her into every dream. Each dark night when she walks alone. Her arms wrapped tightly around her. Her dog tags around her neck, reminding her that she is trained to fight. Enemies. Surprise attacks. But never one of her own.Never someone she had trusted. Never someone who was supposed to protect her at all costs. It all swirls and wraps her in ratty sheets. Each thought. Each memory. Each moment not feeling like her own.She pulls the covers from her sweat-filled bed. An outline of her body stays behind. A reminder of the shadow of a person she has become. She moves into the bathroom and turns on the shower. The hot mist slowly snaking its way across the mirror—pulling her tear-stained face with it. A face she hates. Despises. One that feels like it should be ripped apart with razors. Scarred for life so that no one would ever want to touch her again. Ever want to put his hands over her throat to keep her silent. It takes a lot to love a face that only holds shadows were light and joy once existed. If she goes deep within herself, down to that very core that beats with the self-loathing she has come to live with, eat with, drive to work every day with—like a dark companion that moves and glides with her, just one step away at any given moment—she hears that dark thought that keeps her from going to sleep at night. The one that echoes at the bottom of an empty beer bottle. The one that rattles in a bottle of pills. You deserved it. The rational side of her, the one that takes a shower, does her PT every morning, makes sure her short hair never touches her shoulders—that side knows the voice is wrong. That it is the darkness calling to her. The words his hands used as they attacked her. The hopes he had when he left her on the floor, broken, beaten, bleeding. That he would forever win.But there is a piece deep inside her that he will never be allowed to touch. The one that she hid that night—in the protective corner of her gut.That little piece of her that pushes her to actually step into the shower. Face the day. And walk into work. Her uniform crisp and perfectly set. Because she knows the price she paid to wear it. The battle she fights every day to come into the office, feel them all snap to and say: “Good morning, ma’am.” Some days she wonders what they see in her eyes. Can they feel her fear? Her worry that she will be found out? Exposed? Again?Do they wonder why she never goes out for beers? Never wants to stay for a bit and “chat with the guys”? Can they see through her? Or do they only see the cold exterior she works to keep her locked away?She keeps her eyes straight ahead. Steely and always ready. Away and untouchable. Until she sees eyes that mirror her own. Eyes that look down, unable to maintain eye contact. Bodies that step to the side, too quickly, too easily. Fear of being known radiating from them. Those eyes get her up every day--the ones who need to hear the story, who ache for someone to understand. She pushes herself out of bed and onto the floor for those who need her to stand. The ones who are looking for someone, anyone, who is willing to protect them. To hear the words, “I will fight for you.” This is how she wins over him—how she regains her control. She will say the words that spewed from his mouth, the words that she trusted. Only she will embody them. His hands will not destroy her. And she will do all she can to ensure no one ever feels alone ever again. Not on my watch.She steps forward to the eyes. The ones that have changed since the last time she saw them. The ones that look away just a little too quickly.“Good morning,” she says, quietly. She looks just to the right of young woman’s face, beyond the demand that is well known in the military. A way to let her escape eye contact. A way to offer control for someone who feels powerless. “Good morning, ma’am,” she responds. “I have some paperwork in my office I need to discuss with you. Come with me,” she says. Sarah can feel the eyes move. The fear permeating the air. Boots squeak over the linoleum floor. She opens the door and waits for those boots to walk through. She closes it quietly behind her. Forcing the dream-like hands from her neck and into submission. She clears her throat, taking a deep breath and feeling the strength in her tendons and muscles as she prepares to utter the most important words she can say to a person who has been crushed with the weight of pain and shame: I believe you.

If you need help, please reach out.We have been here. Lived here.You can learn to make plans for next year.Please, reach out. To us, or one of these groups:

Melissa's written us another short story-I honestly can't yet put into words how much I've been loving the stories she's been writing for us.In this one, we're reminded of the stress and anxiety of preparing for homecoming. That fear that the changes that have happened, both in our bodies and our lives, will somehow take away the love our partner has for us.

Rene stood in front of the mirror. Something she had avoided for several months. Her favorite black yoga pants had morphed into a soft, dull gray. Fraying at the edges and giving way to new weight.She pulled at the sides, hoping to see space there. Wishing for less flesh and exhaling with frustration as it rolled out over the top. She peeled down the elastic band, just below her belly, and examined the thick, red zigzags of traumatized skin. A checkered pattern telling a story. Only, a story that felt like it had run off without her—the protagonist. Getting pregnant had been hard on both of them. So many nights of watching a thermometer. Holding of breath while peeing on a stick. The shots. The pain of seeing a negative. Again and again.The elusive positive they both hoped for wreaked havoc on their marriage. Where there was once light and happiness and impromptu dinners and dates—hours of anguished waiting filled the air. Arguments were plenty, always pushing and questioning why they were doing it. And if it was all worth it. The answer was clear to both of them when the double lines appeared. Small, thin, pink affirmations that all their hopes and dreams were real and worthy--their entire universe wrapped in a small white piece of plastic. Rene had put the thin test stick in a plastic bag and wrapped it inside a sock for safe keeping. She kept it in a shoebox, just above her clothes. Should she ever need it. Should it ever call to her.At times, it had. And at times, she cried with it tucked close into her chest. The pregnancy was hard. Harder than most, she felt. But too scared and too much of a beginner to ask. The mommy circles were hard, she had learned. Quick to support. And quicker to condemn. She kept to herself as much as possible. Holding her stomach while she made dinner. Waiting for that uniform to show up in the driveway. Those boots to fall to the floor.Together they would watch movies, both cuddling around her growing belly. Living in the thick moments of family. Of life. Until. “Why can’t you talk to somebody?” she had asked. Over and over again. “Don’t they understand I am pregnant! Can’t someone else go?” They both looked down to the floor. Both longing for the ability to speak that truth out loud to someone. Anyone. And both feeling guilty for what it would mean to even consider asking—someone else would go to war. Someone else could die. Forever cementing their presence into their marriage. “Orders are orders.” The words had fallen flat. Stuck in her heart with a twisted dagger of truth. They both knew this could happen. And they both knew they could not wait to start a family. Waiting had no promises in the army. Yet, Rene had wanted, just once, to come first. A military impossibility most times.The words were thick between them. Twisted and jagged edges. Thick syllables. Dark adjectives. And her belly grew.Until the day she held Reese for the first time. Her belly now an empty cave. A reminder of all that had lived there. All that had breathed. And the time that had passed that would take her to a bus. The white ones she had come to dread. And love. A symbol of a cycle of missing and kissing. From the moment she said goodbye and walked away, months crawled. And while she worked each day to remember that her Reese was a gift she had delicately packaged and kept safe, he was also a reminder of the family that was not whole. And his eyes held the one person she did not want to see, over and over again.It was a twisted paradox for her. A constant punch in the gut. Followed by guilt. Those eyes were also a reminder of all that she believed in. All that she had ever hoped for. For the three of them. For herself. She loved seeing the world through his eyes. Loved watching them grow big and round when he saw an ant for the first time. When he first tried whipped cream. There was magic in his eyes. And Rene was addicted to it. Each day brought them closer. Tighter. Developing a language that only the two of them understood. A routine that held them. And carried them through each day. Every night, Rene collapsed into her bed. Exhausted from nursing him and working to find a way to keep Reese happy. Living. Laughing. And to keep her heart beating while it felt bent.So much of it felt unfair. So hard to understand. How could one person feel so attached to a baby and the person he becomes on a daily basis, and to the life they share, and yet, feel so empty? Like a shell working to find its way back to the ocean floor. Each day brought a wave of confusion as she moved from extreme happiness in all that Reese meant. And was. To deep depression when she realized, again, that she was alone in witnessing it.She held her stomach. Lifting the extra folds. Pulling on the story it held. “So much for losing all the baby weight before you came home,” she exhaled into the bathroom air.She pulled the new dress she had bought herself over her head. She spent several moments staring into the mirror, her mouth in an ‘O” shape while she worked the mascara through her lashes. It had been a while since she put on makeup. She had to admit that it felt nice to get dressed up. To feel like something other than a mother for a while. To be a wife. A woman. Again.She leaned into the mirror one last time, taking in her face. A face that felt different. New. More abundant. She could hardly see the concealer she had layered over the dark blue and purple rings just under eyes. Or the crow’s feet that had settled around the corners. Part of her wondered if it would matter. Would she still be attractive? Still be wanted? She knew in her heart of hearts that none of her fears were founded. But change has a way of leaving jagged edges. Months apart works into a psyche. Shreds at confidence. And several reunions had already taught her that nothing is for certain. She could expect adjustment. And difficulty. And a first kiss that would send her body into spasms and would light her chest on fire. Again. She sighed, deeply. Looking to the clock to see the minutes have finally ticked by. One moment closer to being a family again. To being whole. She wondered for just a moment if she could share Reese. Would she be able to give him over so easily? To put him into arms that had not held him? Had not nursed him? Had not comforted him through countless long and exhausting nights, his cries filling the small home and floating up into the floor of her neighbors above her. Those arms had not been there to hold her at night while she wondered if she was failing. If she was a good mother. While she begged for sleep that just would not come. Those arms had been gone for so long. She pushed the fear and worry down deep inside her. To a secret place she hoped would stay locked. And dormant. She pulled the brush through her hair one last time, and ran to get Reese. 6:00. It was time to head to the hangar. The same one she had been to several times before. But this time, she would be the mother she had always envied before. The one carrying the diaper bag. The frozen milk. The stroller. The snacks to pass the time when delay upon delay happened. The one hiding her fears and worries and concerns about how to become a family again. And the one who couldn’t wait to get home. To be alone. In the dark. She followed the crowd of cars into the parking lot and worked to unload all she would need for the long wait. Snacks. Sippy cups. Plush toys. Her excitement rose as she looked to Reese. His eyes taking in the balloons. The bright reds and blues floating in the cloudless sky.They ambled along with the crowd, finding their spot on the metal bleachers. Rene covered her heart in hopes to slow it. All the waiting. All the nights of reaching over to the next pillow, only to find it empty. They would be over in mere moments. The same thought radiated through the room. Bouncing from nervous person to person.The hangar door opened and a voice boomed through the loudspeaker. The bleachers vibrated, the crowd roaring in response. Rene grabbed Reese, jumping to her feet. Her ribcage rattled with each heartbeat. Nothing mattered. No worries. No fears. No countless thoughts cluttering a brain that had too much time to think. Nothing existed between them but a man who droned on and on while she searched the crowd for those eyes. That hair. That wink that she knew would come her way. His voice finally stopped. And then she heard what they all had been waiting for. The dismissal. She ran. Her heart pounding. Her world moving toward completion. Through the sea of uniforms, she found the arms that were just for her. Molded for just her shoulders. And she fell into them, inhaling all they had endured for the last several months. She sighed deeply, pulling Reese from her hips and moving him into the arms that had waited to hold him. The ones that had been there, curled around her belly. The ones that had spent hours writing letters. Creating videos. Aching. “Reese! Mommy’s home!” she said into his ear. And she exhaled, for the first time in months, as her hand fell into the familiar mold of her wife’s.

The tragedy is, that our children must grow up so quickly and carry burdens we never meant for them to shoulder.

The staccato sound of a phone alarm fills Sam’s darkened room. He opens his eyes, the darkness a welcomed feeling. Daylight will fill his room in an hour. Slowly creeping across his floor. An impending doom. He pulls his phone into bed with him, the white harsh screen causing him to squint to see the words. The texts that came in overnight. “You okay?” The timestamp reads 1:47 am. “Just want you to know I’m here if you want to talk,” she says at 1:54. He puts his phone back under his pillow, somehow hiding from the truth. But he knows Jessica will keep texting. There is no running away.Sam curls his hands under his head. The weight of his dog, Clementine, shifts at his feet. She isn’t ready to get up and face the day, either. “Yeah,” Sam says, looking down at her. “Me too.” Her eyes move up toward him without lifting her head. She can feel when Sam is sad. Her whole body takes it in. He rolls over and works to calm the sickening feeling in his stomach. He hates it when he can feel the anxiety brewing. Like a storm raging inside him. He should be used to this by now. After all, he has been doing it for his entire life. The constant in and out of it all. The never knowing how the story will end, but still moving in the daily pieces and parts of it. He pushes himself up and leans against his headboard. Clementine moves toward him, laying down just to his right side and looking up at him. “Hey girl. Today is going to suck,” he says. She stares at him, moving her eyebrows up and down as if she actually understands the words coming out of his lips. He moves her toward the edge of the bed, and she jumps down, shaking out her sleep. And stretching on her front and hide legs. She moves toward the door and then turns to look back at him. “I’m coming,” he says. He pulls the sheets back and steps out into the cold room. He pulls his sweatpants on and heads out the door and into the hallway.The house is quiet. But he knows no one has slept. No one ever sleeps the night before. As if sleep is an elusive partner in making it all go away. Or pretending this isn’t happening. The living room lamp is on, and Sam steps slowly into the shadows of the hallway. He can hear low talking, and he knows they must have been up all night, taking it all in. One last time. There are times when Sam really can’t stand his parents. Them harping over grades. Cleaning his room. Walking the dog. And then there are moments like this. Moments that make him feel small again. A little boy looking in on them dancing in the kitchen. And thinking they were all that his world needed. “I’m just tired, Dan. I’m worn out from all of it. Just when we get to a point where we might feel normal, you leave again,” she says. “It feels like we can’t really get started in being a family before another workup, and you head out again. And then the whole cycle starts again.” “I know,” he says. He inhales deeply and then lets out a slow exhale. Sam looks into the living room to see all the bags there. The ones he has come to dread. And the ones he once climbed into, trying to sneak his way into his father’s heart. And out to sea. “I’m tired too, Karen. Some days I’m so exhausted, I’m just not sure I can do it anymore,” he says. He works to pull her close to him, but she stiffens. Sam knows that feeling so well. The need to be with him so great and deep and thick. But the desire to stop the hurting—the need to just rip off the bandaid and get it over with—taking over and protecting. “I sometimes wish we had just never started this life,” she says. Sam exhales. He knows where this usually takes them. Down a road of rehashing whose choice it was and why they keep doing it.It is hard for Sam to listen to. The idea of dreaming of a different life feels like a luxury to him. One that he can’t afford to entertain.He moves into the kitchen and opens the fridge, hoping the noise will distract them and end the conversation. “Morning, Sam,” his mom calls from the living room. “Morning,” Sam says. “How did you sleep?” she asks. “Fine,” he says. “Where’s the milk?” They both stir in the living room, moving toward the kitchen. Sam works to hide his face in the cold shelves. Tears spring to his eyes, but he pushes them back down. He isn’t in the mood to hear their same old lectures. “You will be the man of the house,” his dad would say. “You will need to be strong.” Sam had once felt pride in hearing that. To think of wearing his father’s shoes in any way. But now he hates it. To hear that he has any responsibility beyond just being a fifteen year old makes him angry. And jealous of his friends. The one hurdle of going to school off base: the kids had no idea what it meant to be without a parent for months at a time. And they had no idea how good they had it. And then his mother would often follow with, “It is okay to be sad, Sam. I’m sad too,” she would say.Sad is always allowed. Isn’t that how a military kid is supposed to feel when a parent is gone? Sad and missing at all times? That, or pride. The pressure to be so proud of a father who continues to choose work over him. He knows that isn’t true. But the truth, and how it feels—that doesn’t always fit together so easily.His mom always expected him to be sad or teary eyed about it. But after a while, there are no more tears to shed. There is only anger. Or resentment. Or such a deep aching that the thought of expressing it feels like tumbling a house of cards. He will be the one to hold her when she cries. He knows this. And the tears will be there for him too. He will feel them well up. Feel them want to fall. And then he will push them down again. Deep inside. Perhaps there, he can ignore them. Perhaps there he can control it all. Until he can’t.“You hungry?” his mom asks. “How about I make you your favorite blueberry pancakes for breakfast?” She smiles at Sam and moves forward to hug him. She takes him in her arms, and he lets her. He knows she needs a place to land. He squeezes her shoulders and kisses her cheek. “Sure. Sounds good,” he says. “You sure you want to go to school today, bud?” his dad asks. “I can call and get you out of it.” Sam shrugs his shoulders. Unwilling to allow the truth forward. He would love nothing more than to skip school and play video games all day. But he knows his mother will be here. She will work throughout the day not to cry. Or might offer ice cream for dinner as a consolation prize. As much as he loves her, her sadness can be overwhelming. “Nah. It’s cool,” Sam says. “I have a test today anyway.” The lie moves through his teeth and out his lips. He has no desire to pull it back in. The truth feels too heavy to give. “Okay,” his dad says, lowering his eyes. Sam knows he feels guilty. He knows that his father is torn between the love of his family. And the love of the Navy. “Sorry I am going to miss so many soccer games,” his dad says. “I was hoping to see you as forward this year. But mom is going to send me videos, and you will have your biggest cheerleader out there on the boat.”Sam nods his head. “I know, dad. Thanks,” he says. Their knives and forks clink in the silence. They sit at the table in the thick quiet for several minutes. What is there to say when a family is being split? How do you make conversation and pretend like it isn’t there? “I gotta get going,” Sam says, pushing himself back from the table and carrying his plate over to the dishwasher. His dad moves over to him. The look of sheer pain pulling at his eyes. His mouth. Sam works to contain all that wells inside him. The fear. The anger. The sadness. At the end of the day, no matter how old he gets, Sam never gets used to sending his father off to sea. Toward wars that could take him. The ache never ceases. It only grows and deepens. His family will do all the right things to work on it: counseling, communication, conversations about thoughts and feelings. But none of it changes the truth of the pain.And the pain is always the hardest part. “I love you, Sam. I’m proud of you, son,” he says, pulling Sam into a hug. Sam looks over his father’s shoulder to see his mother wiping away tears. She stares toward the wall. Unable to bear witness.Sam wraps his hands around his father and closes his eyes. He takes in the smell of his uniform. The light scent of sea salt and fresh air. He goes through the flipbook of memories as he clings to his father’s torso. The football in the air. The soccer ball at their feet. The movies. The popcorn battles. Paintball. The laughing as Clementine pulled over the Christmas tree. A tear leaves Sam’s eye, and he lets it fall onto his father’s shoulder. A small item to carry forward and out the door. “I love you, too, Dad,” Sam says. His father claps him on the back a few times before releasing him. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he says. He nods his head, hoping to make the wish a certainty.Sam knows that wish never works. He will notice his absence every night as they sit at the table, just the two of them. As he walks by her room when she can’t seem to get out of bed. As he works to try to focus on schoolwork and Jessica and his friends. Only to feel a gaping hole in his chest.“Hurry home, Pops,” Sam says as he turns to leave. Jessica’s horn beeps just as he makes his way out the door. He does not turn to see his father staring after him. But he knows he is there. Sam opens the door and gets into the passenger side of Jessica’s blue, battered Camry. “Hey,” she says. “Hey,” he says.“You okay,” she asks. Sam works to keep his gates closed. The last thing he needs is to fall apart in front of the girl he has been hoping to date for two years. “I’m fine,” he says. “Let’s go.” Jessica eases out of the driveway and onto the road. They drive to school in silence. Sam moves into the main hallway and the immediate chaos engulfs him. The noise. The music. The laughter. All of it feels foreign to him. Like none of it matters. He steps into the bathroom and moves toward the sink. He bends down to splash cold water over his face. He looks up into the mirror to see a face he hardly recognizes. His eyes look empty. His face seems long. Just seeing it on him makes him rush to the bathroom stall. There is only one in the boy’s room, and he works to close it, offering him a small sanctuary. The tears roll before he can stop them. He stuffs his sweatshirt into this mouth to work to silence the sobs. Boys move and talk just outside the stall, completely unaware that Sam’s world has fallen apart. Again.He cries for several moments. Allowing it to release. And slow. Sam knows this won’t be the last time. He has enough experience to know the waves will hit him all day. He pats his eyes dry and clears his throat, then flushes the toilet. He washes his hands, looking into the mirror once again. Pull it together, Sam. He takes a deep breath and places his hands on the bathroom door. He pushes the door open and steps out into the chaos of the hallway.He melts into the screams and peals of laughter. He moves through the maze undetected. Unnoticed. Unseen.

There is nothing quite as strange feeling as getting back into dating.When there's more to it all than just putting yourself back out there?That's when it becomes more.How do you weigh the past and who you are against who they expect and hope you to be?

Rene twists and untwists her necklace, looking toward the door for what had to be the hundredth time since she sat down. A young couple walks through the door, laughing and smiling. The girl leans into him. Twirling her hair as they wait for a table.

Rene turns back to the empty booth seat across from her. Beads of sweat slide down the glass of the water she ordered to signal she isn’t here alone. The ice cubes have morphed into slivers.

She lifts the glass from the paper napkin, pouring salt under it to keep it from becoming a permanent attachment—an old trick she learned from her serving days. She replaces the glass with the delicacy of a new mother placing a baby in the crib.

“Pull it together, Rene,” she whispers under her breath. Then wipes her sweaty hands on the cloth napkin she has already placed on her lap, ready and waiting.

The hands on her watch read 7:15, and she picks the worn skin on her fingers to combat the anxiety. Anxiety she has worked years to try to get under control. The fear of what if constantly working its way into the marrow of her bones.

She closes her eyes, working to count backwards in her head. Imagining herself on a beach, the waves lapping at her feet. The sounds of the seagulls in her ears. Just as her therapist has trained her to do.

She feels him enter the booth before she sees him. Relief fills her. Followed by shame. She berates herself for needing anything from someone. Yet, longing for it.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was insane!” he says. He settles into the seat, shrugging the coat from his body. Rene stifles a laugh as she reaches across to pull a small piece of bloodied toilet paper from his neck.

“Oh. Sorry. Guess I was in a hurry,” he says, blushing.

“So what’s good here?” he asks. They both thumb through the menu, working their way through the awkwardness that still seems to linger on a third date. Especially when neither are kids. And both have been searching. The needling question of “could this be the one?” constantly circling and threatening to crash the date. Followed by the deep fear of “if this is the one, what will it mean? What will people think of me?”

Rene looks through the menu, but can’t focus. The words and letters merge into one and float off the page. She puts her menu down and slides her palms down her napkin again.

“Hey. Keith. I need to talk to you about something,” she says. He pulls the menu down so that his eyes show just over the red edge of the laminated paper.

“Okay,” he says. The light in his eyes slides into apprehension. “Wow. You look serious. Should I be worried?” he asks, nervously.

“Well. I’ve been trying to find the right way to say this and I just can’t figure out how to do it. And I keep thinking that maybe there will be a way I could just slip it into conversation but I don’t really know how a person could do that without beings super weird and awkward,” she says. Then inhales sharply. Unsure if she has said anything at all. And yet, wanting to say nothing.

Why couldn’t this just never happen? Why does she need to tell him? She looks around at countless people laughing and enjoying their dates. Hands across the table. Feet intertwined. Why does this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t she be one of those other girls?

“Okay,” he says, urging her on. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

She stares at her hands, hating the raw skin around her fingers. The trademark of her thoughts. She craves someone to hold them. Someone to see how much those hands have done. How much they have carried. What they have lost. To love the sweaty palms and all.

“I was married,” she says. She looks through her eyelashes, hoping for a veil to hide the moment. The silence thickens between them. Her anxiety creeps up her spine and into her scalp. Where it tingles and burns.

“And by was I mean there is a part of me that, well, still is. I am a widow. My husband died in Iraq ten years ago,” she says. Part of her wants to rattle off his MOS and all his amazing awards she has displayed in her home. His portrait keeping watch. The flag there to forever hold him. She looks up, hoping not to see the look she has come to loathe. The one that meets her nearly every time his name is mentioned. Or she explains her tattoos. She wants him to be different. Hope rises in her chest, guarded carefully with iron bars.

Too many dates have ended before they began. Too many have made her defensive. A hardened heart hidden away. But something about him had seemed different. At least, enough for her to want to wait to tell him. Just for a couple of dates of pure bliss with no need to court reality.

He stares into her. Through her. And while she doesn’t see the same pity she normally sees when speaking her truth, she can smell it--fear. She exhales deeply and prepares herself for what she knows will follow.

“Look. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you--” she begins. A tall blonde appears with pen and pad in hand. “Hello,” she says. “Would you like to hear our specials?” she asks in a deep southern drawl. Her pen hovers over the paper. Ever ready.Keith looks down at the menu. Unable to make eye contact. Rene slides her palms down her napkin. The woman stares for just a moment, moving from foot to foot as she feels the unease moving into her bones.

“Could you give us just a second?” Rene asks, attempting a smile. The woman nods and puts her pen back into her apron. She moves to another table and restores her smile.

“Keith. I—““Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. His shoulders slump. Rene’s chest tightens and she pulls her lip into her teeth. Somehow her reality always seems to become someone else’s pain.“It’s a lot to put on a first date, you know?” she says. “Who wants to go on a date when it means there is a third person always there?” She reaches across the table and puts her hand over his.

He doesn’t move it. He also doesn’t reciprocate.

“Too much to deal with?” she asks. The bars in her chest close. Suffocating out the hope. And adding the steel back into her spine. The hardness is comforting. It has never failed her. Or left her alone in a booth. Years of dating as a widow has a way of teaching painful lessons.

“It’s okay. I am used to it.” Her lips curl into a knowing smile. She leans back into the seat, ready. And resigned.

“That’s unfair,” he says. “You can’t just spring this on me and expect me to act like it is no big deal. It’s a lot to handle.”

She nods. It is a lot. It’s true. She would know.

A surge of anger heats her neck and she works to push it back down. It is hard for her to remember that there are people in the world who do not live the military life every day. They don’t know what it means to hear that bugle. They don’t know what it feels like to feel the weight of that flag.

She doesn’t expect them to. And she also can’t help but feel angry that she will never not know that feeling again. She will never be free to walk away from this like others can. And she wouldn’t want to. Carrying him around with her is all she has left.

He pulls his coat on slowly. Rene sits tall. She knows what to do from here.

“Just give me a little time to think?” he asks. Rene nods. He stands and makes his way to her side. Rene closes her eyes as his hand falls on her shoulder and he kisses the top of her head. “I’ll call you,” he says. And then walks out the door.

She fights back tears. She pinches her eyes closed as tightly as she can. Forcing them back and refusing to give in. The weight of him moves into the seat across from her, and a small smile curls her lips. A tear frees itself and slides down her cheek.

Now what’s a hot thing like you doing crying over some guy who doesn’t deserve to lick your shoe?

His melodic voice rolls over her body and into her chest. She opens her eyes to see him there. His dark hair. His wicked smile.

“The only thing hot about me these days are my hot flashes,” she says, laughing. He smiles and leans forward. Into her.

Don’t worry about it, okay? You will find the right one. I promise.

Rene stands and moves over to the other side of the booth, nestling herself next to him. Leaning into his smell. His breath.

“How about a drink?” she asks.

Atta girl.

She raises her hand toward the server. The woman moves back across the room, uncertain but determined not to let it show.

“May I have a shot of whiskey?” Rene asks. “Best stuff you got.” The woman nods and winks at her. “You bet,” she says as she turns to walk away.

Rene pulls the napkin from under the water glass and searches her purse for a pen. She stares for several moments before writing on the napkin.

I love the way your hair shines in the light.

Rene smiles. Her heart pushes against her ribcage.

“No use wasting good whiskey on a guy who doesn’t deserve you,” she says as she places the shot on the table. Rene smiles and nods. She pays for the shot and waits for the woman to leave.

She curls her fingers around the glass. His fingers intertwine with hers and she exhales with relief.

She lifts it to her nose, taking in the pungent smell and losing herself in the memories. The laughter. The dress uniform on the beach. Her long veil flying away in the wind.

A rainy day in April as she cried into the last shirt he ever wore.

She pulls the napkin from her lap and wipes the tears from her face. She pulls her coat onto her shoulders and stands to leave. Never once looking back at him as she walks out into the cold night air.

The server returns to the table to find a full shot of whiskey next to a note on a napkin. She turns toward the door, but Rene is long gone. She moves over to the table to read the note.

The clock reads 4:17. Big blue neon numbers stare back at Alicia as she begs them to reverse. To go back in time. To give her back moments. That is all she wants. Moments. And, too often, moments are all she has. She listens to the gentle snoring from the other side of the bed. It feels like a canyon between them. He, on the other side, looking forward into the next day. Never noticing her behind him, working a way across. Trying to build the bridge. Searching for an answer to make the corners move back together. Squarely under their feet. Where they had always assumed it would stay. The soft lift and fall of his chest moves the sheet covering him. The dog, curled at his feet, lifts his eyes, just a moment to make eye contact with Alicia before deciding she is not worth the effort to move. Not worth the time to leave his soft, warm space at the curve of his leg. “It isn’t like he is going to move any time soon, Ranger. If he can sleep through the sounds of freedom, he can sleep through anything,” she says. She feels a soft laugh begin to move through her throat, but then stops short. Pushing it back down. The lightness feeling morbid. The need to laugh so foreign and gone that it scares her to consider it. Yet, she longs for it. Really, she longs for anything. Something. A push or pull between them, sending her in a direction that would make sense. That would not feel so regimented. So routine. So lack of the life they swore to cherish twenty years ago. She allows her eyes to move over to the wedding photo on the wall. Two young kids, so uncertain of their future. Yet, so ready to take it on. Their naïve faces meet her lost and vacant eyes. His dress uniform perfectly pressed. Her white gown full of promise and excitement. “Oh, shut up,” she mumbles to them, moving the covers off her legs and into the beginning of her day. Her slippers beside her bed, just where she always keeps them. Her glasses within reach, equipped with progressives. “We don’t really call them bifocals anymore,” the lady had said at the glasses counter. Alicia had run her hands over the cute glasses with the thin frames. The frames that would not fit her round face anymore. The ones that would never hold a lens that her strained eye needed. “We call them progressives. You know, to soften the sting,” she said, winking. Alicia had smiled. As she always smiles. The young lady behind the counter pulled her thin, pink frames down her nose and waved goodbye as Alicia paid a hefty sum and walked out to her car. Now, the glasses feel like a crutch. A necessity rather than a cute accessory. She couldn’t help but wonder if most things in her life hadn’t fallen into that category. She ambles into the kitchen, looking out into the dark, cold night. The sun will be peaking over the clouds soon. Alicia is not a morning person, but her insomnia doesn’t give her much choice anymore. She pours the water into the coffee pot, waiting for the liquid courage to drip into her veins. She moves her hands down over her hips. Her sagging belly. When did forty begin to feel so old? It seemed like only yesterday that she was out and running, leaving the world behind as her pony tail flailed in the wind, snapping her in the neck and sticking to her sweaty skin. She exhales, wishing that memories didn’t clog her mind so. Like cobwebs in the corner of her life story. This isn’t the story she had wanted, all those years ago in that gown of white. Honestly, she didn’t know what that girl really wanted. Adventure. Travel. Kids. A job that fulfilled. None of those things really seemed to ever be in Alicia’s reach. What other military family doesn’t get stationed overseas at least once? How do you just bounce back and forth from one small-town post to another? Alicia often wished she had paid attention to the recruiter. Or that he had. Who knew an MOS would be such a big deal? What young kids would?Alicia laughs to herself as she pours the creamer into her favorite Paris coffee mug. The one she got at the dollar store because she swore someday she would go there. The wet streets. The red umbrellas. The small café chairs nestled in the street. “Who knew anything when signing those papers?” she asked herself, softly. Alicia sits at the computer, wrapping her hands around her small mug to keep them warm. She pulls up the bookmarked travel agency on the screen. The one that boasts of affordable prices and crystal blue waters. She scrolls through until she finds her favorite package. Thailand. There is something magical about the water. The land. The elephants. People laughing as they play in water no higher than their knees. Their smiles seem unattainable. Deep. Thick. And foreign to her. And she craves them more than air. The sound of clicking toenails on the linoleum floor breaks her reverie. Ranger comes around the corner, staring up at her expectantly.“Oh. Sure. It’s all about daddy until you need to go out, huh?” Alicia says. She rubs his head gently, feeling the fur under her hand. She loves their dog, yet, can’t help but feel the responsibility of keeping “one more thing alive” sitting squarely on her shoulders. The weight so heavy and thick. He follows Ranger around the corner. His bed head at complete odds with his freshly ironed uniform. Alicia found it funny that he still ironed it. Old habits die hard. At least he still had his dress shoes to polish.“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His pt shorts and shirt hang over his arm. He is always ready. Forever prepared. “No,” Alicia says. “And if you don’t be quiet, the kids won’t be getting any more sleep either.” She stares at him. Letting him know she is serious. These early morning hours, even though she loathes them, they are all she has. “I gotta get going,” he says, picking his keys up off the table and working his short hair into submission. He puts the beret on his head. The one that has come to wear and tear on her heart. The one that has been to Iraq and Afghanistan more times than she cares to recall. “I am hoping to be home as close to six or seven as possible,” he says. But she knows better. It is a hope to see him anymore. Not an assumption. “Ok,” she says, leaning into his kiss. He stops for a moment to stare at the screen. He looks back and Alicia. His eyes gleaming. “You planning to leave me?” he asks, laughing. “Found some hot dude over in Thailand, have you?” Alicia meets his eyes, begging him to see her. Wanting him to hear the deep longing in her chest. The need to be more. Feel more. The desire to just run away and forget it all. Leave it behind. Pretend all the pain and loss and death never happened. Just run. Forever. With nothing holding her back. He laughs and turns toward the door. Never waiting to hear her answer. Whistling as he walks out into the cold morning air. She turns to the screen, slowly closing it as she hears the kids beginning to stir. “Why would I ever think that?” she says. She wraps her palms around her favorite Paris mug, and steels her body to face the day.